Monday 25 February 2008

Rules of the Game

I was watching Life in Cold Blood tonight, and was interested in the fight between the King Cobras. They fight for dominance, but have an unwritten rule (I would think there are few written snake rules) that they don't use their deadly bites on each other, but opt to wrestle instead. That way the conflict is settled, but no-one gets hurt.

Evolutionarily, I suppose this instinct exists to preserve as much King Cobra life as possible, which makes these snakes seem very enlightened compared to humankind.

I wish we could settle our disagreements that way. We could get Israel and Palestine to choose a champion each, and they could compete in a series of challenges (perhaps ending in a Gladiators-style Eliminator game) and then the best man win (the women, meanwhile, would be watching together, rolling their eyes at the whole thing). Wouldn't that be a bit more civilised? I for one believe the civility of one's society can be determined by its preponderance of novelty foam fingers.

Why haven't we evolved in such a way to preserve life?

In a way we have, by coming up with the most stupid idea in the world: the rules of war.

I've never understood this schoolyard element to armed conflict. Rules are generally quite useful and beneficial to an organised event, but surely once you've started killing people, once your aim is to wipe the opposition off the planet, that ship has sailed.

"By all means, kill us. Shoot us in the head, bomb our buildings, whatever, but don't kill us with chemical weapons. That's a step too far. I know my corpse would be much more happy with a bullet-hole in my heart that a lung-full of gas."

Why would you obey the rules of war? If you win, there's no-one to chastise you, and if you lose, you're in a hole in the ground which, at best, would make punishment difficult and time-consuming.

I'm sure the evolutionary reason for both killing each other and making up rules about it is down to some kind of Game Theory, where we can achieve more by cheating on the deal, but gain some by sticking to it. It's worrying that this gamble is happening at a genetic level. I'd rather be able to make up my own mind, or at least have the genes consult me about it first.

The example of the Cobras just reminds me of that childish idea that I'm sure everyone had at one time: "Why can't all the people fighting in the war just decide to stop killing each other and walk away?"

And people respond in lots of different ways, but none make sense. Surely any non-violent solution is better. Being shot and blown into pate is literally the worst alternative.

"Except for the destruction of national pride and our way of life and denigrating our Gods and blah blah blah."

Fuck you, genes. Fuck you, people. I'm with the fucking snakes.

Thursday 21 February 2008

Walk The Plank

I had a job interview on Tuesday at the English Faculty at Oxford University. I'm no good with interviews, and have had little practice, being a flaky temp for most of my working life.

The night before I kept dreaming about it. I'd dream that I'd got up and was heading to the interview, then wake up and realise I was still in bed. I don't know why I was so nervous. I didn't think I was. Perhaps my subconscious was making up for my superficial malaise.

The interview was fine in the end, even though I felt over-dressed in my (not really a) suit and tie. But they said they'd try and contact me that afternoon.

And I still haven't heard anything. That can't be a good sign, can it?

I hope it isn't, because this is like every other job prospect in my life. I've never applied for a job hoping I would get it. Just like George Costanza, I've never had a meeting where I wanted the other guy to show up.

I hope I never hear from them. At the moment I'm in a pleasant limbo where I've done all I can, but don't have to move on to the next bit of torture yet.

***

We went to see Juno today, so it's time for another film review!

It was good. Very good. But not amazing.

It's not the film's fault, but when you hear five-star reviews and Oscar-buzz, it builds up your expectations unfairly.

It was a charming film, full of good performances. I'm glad I went. But I wasn't blown away. I still recommend it though.

Before the film, we were bombarded by the usual anti-piracy ads. They're getting more and more forceful. We can't buy pirate videos, we aren't allowed to record the film, we can't download films.

The film companies are like cornered animals: spitting, growling, desperate.

I think in the not too distant future, we won't even be able to retain any memories of the film. After all, it's a kind-of recording, isn't it? Recording into our memory banks?

They'll have to play some brainwashing message at the end of the film, wiping our memories clean, so we can't go around telling people what happened (verbal piracy) or reminiscing about the plot (nostalgic piracy). We won't know we've been brainwashed, we just can't call any of the details of the film to mind.

Of course, it would mean mandatory searches on the way out of the cinema, to check people haven't written anything down about the plot. Otherwise the audience could write notes to their future selves, on post-its or scratched into their skin with razorblades. No knowledge of the film can escape the theatre.

(Except one brave patron might succeed in smuggling some paper in under their tongues, make notes during the film, then secrete it in a plastic bag up their own arse. Then, desperate and blank-minded, retrieve it at a later time and marvel at the plot points of Miss Congenialty 2: Armed and Fabulous. And the totalitarian obelisk would fall. Knowledge is power. And knowing the cool bits in films is... probably something comparable)

It could save the movie studios loads of money in the long run. They could just play the same film each time, and we wouldn't know. They wouldn't even need to play a film; just two hours of blank screen. And we'd leave, not remembering the details, but thinking the movie was alright, ok, pretty good I guess.

But that would rely on the audience staying for the full two hours. Which probably wouldn't happen, unless the cinema was full of pretentious art-film lovers who would laugh and nudge their companions knowingly after every ten minutes of fuck all.

For the masses, you'd need something to keep their attention. How about, just as they're tiring and starting to leave, you just flash an image of a tiger onto the screen. Just briefly. Then they'd sit down, thinking you were building to something.

But the only thing you're building to is a slave state, where mind-control saves millions of film-making money, and necessitates only a couple of stock tiger-shots to satisfy the desires of the public.

Pretty shocking, isn't it?

Well, what if I was to tell you that it's already happening. In cinemas all over the world, this practice is in effect. Do you remember what happened in Cloverfield? Do you? Any of the details? No.

"Something... I remember something... I see... orange and black stripes... and a proud, feline visage... and a voice telling me it's all okay, nothing important happening here... the film was alright, ok, pretty good I guess... and then... nothing."

Nothing.

Mark my words, we're losing the fight.

I will be taking razorblades on my next cinema visit. Will you?

Monday 18 February 2008

thinkthinkthinkkeepmovingkeepmovingfocusfreecell

My brain is configured in such a way that I need more than one type of stimulus most of the time. I might have written about this before, and I'll check after I've written this, and may edit it if I have.

I'm often in moods (and right now is an example) where my mind is racing and I feel like I need to be doing something. I can't focus on one thing (reading a book for example), but am thinking of loads of things at once.

I feel a bit like this most of the time. Whenever I'm watching TV or a film, or listen to music, I tend to play Freecell or a game on my phone. It's as though the information I'm receiving isn't enough to satisfy me, so I need an additional, visceral activity, to keep the instinctive part of my brain active as well as the contemplative part. (I'm no expert on the construction of the brain, so this may not be entirely scientific.)

Sometimes I can concentrate on just one thing. If it's something highly visual for example, or difficult to follow, I can watch it happily. Or if it's something new. But a lot of the time I find myself needing something to do with my hands (and wanking isn't always a practical solution).

So now I'm in a mood where I need to be channelling all of this nervous energy. I've played a lot of Freecell, even when in conversation or thinking about things, and now I am trying to use this blog as an outlet.

I remember when I was a teenager, I used to have a rubber ball that I'd throw in the air and catch when watching TV (as I did most of the time, lacking even the illusion of a social life). I also remember a period where I was moving to a different bedroom in our house and, for one reason or another, I had two TVs in the room. I distinctly remember watching the sitcom Sister, Sister on Nickelodeon on one screen and playing Super Probotector on the other.

I think doing creative things helps me to concentrate. And often I don't have the problem, but I wonder why it exists.

The self-aggrandising (and therefore true) explanation is that my brain is so powerful that I am not content with the activities that would satisfy a normal man. I can take in so much more information, I should be kept in the Pentagon, connected by wires to the world's media and communications, and process it all in bite-sized chunks for the eggheads and suits to scavenge upon. Or I should live at the Earth's core, controlling everyone and everything with chunky levers and old-fashioned pulley mechanisms.

Alternatively, it might be a reaction to the fact I am generally quite sedate and laid-back. Perhaps my nervous energy is stored during the day and released at random, when hopefully a copy of Tetris is near.

I have been drinking lots of tea recently, but not enough to give me caffeine-related hyperactivity. Perhaps I am a manic-depressive, but without the depression. That would be brilliant. Much better than people who are just depressive without the mania. Poor bastards.

If only I could put this episodes to some use. I suppose these blog entries are some use, but their value is questionable. If I could paint masterpieces or solve complex mathematical conundra whilst watching Harry Hill's TV Burp I could really be going somewhere.

But at the moment I'm going nowhere. Unless the vibrations caused by my nervous energy slowly buzz and shake me into another dimension; one so incredible and interesting that it will have my full attention and slay The Beast of Curious Hyper (TM).

Then how will I get home?

Sunday 17 February 2008

Blog Entry #79

Another couple of film reviews!

Strangers on a Train

I'm a big Hitchcock fan. You can always rely on him for pure, unpretentious quality in every frame. Having said that, this film wasn't quite up to par with his best. Some real suspense (of course), and the actor playing the psycho guy was cool, but it felt a bit light. The concept is great, but there didn't seem to be enough to make it a full Hitch experience.

La Dolce Vita

If I'm to consider myself a film-buff (and I shouldn't; I only go to the cinema a few times a year), I feel I need to know more about the European masters. I always hear people talking about Godard and Herzog and whoever, and thought I'd start with a bit of Fellini.

I suppose it's to be expected, but I thought this art-film was too much art, not enough film. It was enjoyable enough, tremendous performances, beautifully shot, and often very funny. But it was very, very long, and felt like it could do with some editing (sacriledge, I know). I'm sure everything was there for a reason, and added to the power of the piece, but I have to say I got bored.

I will say that I thought the sound was one of the most impressive things about it. The music and effects were really intense, and created a lot of atmosphere.

Interesting fact probably known to everyone but me: there's a photographer in the film called Paparazzo, and it is from him we derive the term 'paparazzi'.

***

After a verbal slip by my mum, I've come up with some interesting characters called Bamboons. They're a bit like wicker monkeys, and their natural predator is the Panda (which is lucky, as Pandas are slow).

Perhaps they can have something to do with Bill A Bockingbird. He could take up their case in court, defending them against the charge of being too lacking in nutrients.

Saturday 16 February 2008

The Sun Has Gone To Bed And So Shall I

Right, this is all, I promise. I think my nervous energy needed something spectacular to absorb it, and I have found it. I stole this from Adam Buxton's website. This video is for a band called zZz, and is directed by a guy called Roel Wouters. It's fucking awesome. I'm almost certain you'll enjoy it. Especially if you're up in the early hours, looking for some synaptic sponge.

Scattershot

My brain is buzzing with nothing in particular. Lying in bed, I felt like I might have some interesting inner-monologues, so I got up and am trying to monologise (I've invented a word) via computer keyboard.

It doesn't work as well as thinking, because I can't type fast enough to keep up, and am probably losing many insights as I go back to correct typos.

I'll start with the first thing I'm thinking about: I saw that American sitcom The Big Bang Theory on Channel 4 tonight. It was bad. I don't mind a show composed entirely of stereotypes, but this seemed so conspicuously WRITTEN.

They say you should show, not tell with your script. Having the main characters sit in a room, introduce themselves and their key character traits, is telling. And the jokes were so clunky! I can't believe they couldn't have edited it down, especially if it's written by a team of writers.

It might have only seemed so bad, as we just finished watching series 2 of The Wire (series 3 is being delivered shortly), which is as close to flawless as drama can get. I don't know why it's so good. Everything is just right.

***

I remember when I was a teenager and I found out that newspapers supported particular political parties. I couldn't believe it.

Surely newspapers are supposed to give facts. Wouldn't having a specific favourite completely invalidate any supposed factual content? Wouldn't it be like the Match of the Day team coming out as supporting Arsenal, and abusing their opposition?

I still don't understand it. The fact that the media could always just be lying to us, really fucks with my head. The trouble is, if you abstain from mainstream media, you have to revert to looking at idiot conspiracy theories from anarchist bloggers, who have their own biases (things that give them erections or 911 Truth Movement films or both).

But there probably is no objective truth, and it's all shades of grey, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder or something. Fuck it, it doesn't keep me awake at night.

I am awake at night, but I don't think it's because of that.

***

I love the old sixties Marvel cartoons. I watched them as a kid and didn't seem to notice the shoddy animation. The theme tunes are the best. Here's Thor!



Despite my church aversion, I like the fact this sounds a bit like a hymn. I'd probably be more interested in church if it was more focussed on Thor. The Christian God seems a bit vague and flaky compared to Thor. Thor had a massive hammer. I'd rather worship that symbol than a means of execution.

If you're going to invent a deity, you should go crazy with it. The Christian God is too non specific. I want a god who wears a particular type of hat. And if you take it off, he dies. And he has a wooden leg. And a sawn-off shotgun. And he's allergic to mustard.

My sister had an idea for a superhero called G.I. Jesus, which I think is brilliant. He should have a square jaw, stubble, and should smoke cigars, holstering them in his stigmata.

Religion could be so much more fun. They only need to try some new ideas (eg. Bouncy Pews).

***

I don't know if this is acceptable, but whilst wasting time I found this amusing MSN conversation. The person I'm conversing with is using a clever alias (ie. it's not the real Burt Reynolds), but has read this blog before. If you're out there, mysterious stranger, and would like me to take this down, just let me know. But keep in mind, there's only about two people that read this.

The following is an unedited conversation from a few years ago, typos intact, and gives a good insight into the social and political concerns of the young British citizen. Enjoy!

Burt Reynolds says:
hey, hows it going?

Diamond Badger says:
It is going fine. What'supwit you?

Burt Reynolds says:
not bad, i'm currently trying to decide what to do after uni finishes, looking at MA options.....
Burt Reynolds says:
are you going to do a creative writing ma or something?


Diamond Badger says:

Yeah! If I get of my arse and finish applying. Come to Exeter with me and Lucy! We'll be a cool gang!
Diamond Badger says:
Exeter is the New York of the South-West

Burt Reynolds says:
Yeah great! Hang out with a couple in love! That would be an excellent way of forgetting how single i am!

Diamond Badger says:
We could go to romantic restaraunts, and get the waiter to bring over an extra chair. He can roll his eyed, as we sit on a cramped table for two! You'll love it!
Diamond Badger says:
roll his eyes
Diamond Badger says:
You ca sit on the sofa as we watch RomComs!
Diamond Badger says:
I should be a salesman...

Burt Reynolds says:
or I can watch romcoms while you two have sex!
Burt Reynolds says:
It will be like 'Three's Company', but with more rape

Diamond Badger says:
I always thought that was missing from 3's Company
Diamond Badger says:
Just like it was missing from 'Different Strokes'
Diamond Badger says:
Interracial paedophilia!
Diamond Badger says:
'Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?"
Diamond Badger says:
"Your bleeding asshole, Arnold"
Diamond Badger says:
Ratings

Burt Reynolds says:
Hmmm...lets take a look at what Exeter uni has to offer...
Burt Reynolds says:
'arab and islamic studies'
Burt Reynolds says:
i could do that
Burt Reynolds says:
I look a bit like an arab


Diamond Badger says:
And you're morally bereft
Diamond Badger says:
like an Arab

Burt Reynolds says:
and i'm hung like an arab

Diamond Badger says:
All arabs should be hung

Burt Reynolds says:
haha 'Cornish Studies'
Burt Reynolds says:
thats the course for me


Diamond Badger says:
aka 'Incest Jamboree'

Burt Reynolds says:
then it's definately the course for me

Diamond Badger says:
I always argue with my friend Dave over whether Devon cream teas are better than Cornish teas (he's originally from cornwall), despite the fact I have no knowledge of the subject, and only a slight connection to Devon.

Diamond Badger says:
It usually ends in tears of blood.


Burt Reynolds says:
I always argue with my flatmate over whether Japanese green tea is better than Persian Ceylon tea
Burt Reynolds says:
It usually ends with one of us getting butt fucked
Burt Reynolds says:
but then again, thats how nearly every night ends

Diamond Badger says:
I don't consider it a good night unless it ends with me having to sit down on an inflatable seat cushion for my own comfort

Burt Reynolds says:
Yeah i know what you mean. Sometimes I just have to back my ass up onto a saucy door handle, while 'fish-hooking' myself, kerazy!

Diamond Badger says:
Sigh. I miss the old days...

Burt Reynolds says:
yeh.....me, you...a bottle of Rohypnol and five crying 12yr olds....
Burt Reynolds says:
good times

Diamond Badger says:
I'll tell ya, I've had better birthday parties
Diamond Badger says:
but not many


There you have it. I should compile all this into a book.

You can tell I'm maturing, as it now takes slightly longer for my conversations to resort to rape jokes. I'm well adjusted.

More later.

Friday 15 February 2008

Origin of Faeces

In keeping with my theme of having more interesting thoughts when I'm asleep than when I'm awake, I woke up yesterday thinking about the evolutionary nature of ideas.

I think. in between dreams, I began to believe that there was some kind of 'Selfish Idea' theory parallel to Dakwins's 'Selfish Gene'. The Dawkins theory basically says (and I haven't read it, so this might be entirely wrong) we can think of evolution as genes trying to pass on their material. Human beings (and life in general) are the vehicles, allowing them to achieve this end. We're being used!

Anyway, in my sleep-addled brain, I must have thought that ideas were the same. I thought the human brain was merely the tools that ideas used to reproduce and grow. We are merely the vessels in which ideas live, devlop and reproduce. Pretty cool, huh?

Except it's bollocks, of course. When you're not drowsy in dreamland, it's obvious that it doesn't really work. Ideas couldn't exist without brains. Brains produce ideas. Ideas in one person aren't connected to those of someone else.

But it did get me thinking about ideas, and their evolutionary purpose. If we assume (and it's a big assumption) that humans are the only life forms to have ideas, and that animals act only by instinct, what benefit is it to our survival? Clearly ideas help us to thrive and improve ourselves, not only by giving us ways of achieving our basic needs, but in widening the possibilities of what we can achieve.

But in animals, the process seems to be a bit more shallow. Other lifeforms seem to evolve quite happily without ideas. I wonder why we needed them. It's almost as though evolution had taken us as far as it could by itself, and had to come up with a way to let us evolve ourselves. That's probably why humans are better than animals (and we are; don't let any animal rights person tell you you're worse than a duck, you're probably not). We're not just progressing linearly (is that a word), we're evolving outwards.

The side effect of this is we're aware of evolution, and are not so strictly constrained by it. We're arrogant now. We're all like, "Yeah, the Panda is shit, won't breed, and would have died out ages ago, but we're gonna keep it alive! Fuck you, God! We run the show now!".

Having said that, I'm sure this is all part of some higher-level evolution. It might be evolutionarily beneficial to fuck with evolution. It might even be beneficial to write this blog...

***

Hey, everyone who likes Harry Potter, if you're tired of reading my foolish thoughts, go and read Lucy's fanfiction!

You can find it here:
http://ls269.deviantart.com

Her foolish thoughts are much more entertaining, well-written and beautiful.

Even if you don't like Harry Potter, she sometimes writes journal entries that will give you insight into her warped mind.

***

We've been renting lots of films lately, so here are two quick reviews:

Seven Samurai

Excellent, funny, action-packed, revolutionary. Quite long though.

Superbad

Pretty good, generally funny, definitely not revolutionary, Michael Cera is great as usual, not enough tits for a teen movie.

***

That's all for now. Actually, now that I think about it, Seven Samurai didn't have any tits in it, so it can hardly be called excellent...

Wednesday 13 February 2008

Harping On

I've just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird. It was really enjoyable; one of those GCSE-type books that you drain all the fun from through over-analysis. Luckily I didn't study it, so was able to enjoy it on its own merits.

I can't remember enjoying any of the books I studied at school, and I'm sure it's not because I didn't like reading (if only we could have done some Roald Dahl or the Hobbit, or one of those Point Horror books). It's just that you're introduced to reading in such a systematic way, pouring over the nuts and bolts, that emotional connection has nothing to do with it. Teachers would be better off trying to help kids find a book they love, something they can be passionate about, then after that they can demolish the magic with talk about literary techniques and shit.

That's probably a naive thought. The idea of loving a book would be enough to have you beaten to death at my school. They'd be better off doing classes on onomatopoeia in Guitar Hero.

*** INTERRUPTION***

Whilst searching for how to spell 'onomatopoeia' my Intenet Explorer window froze up. I might as well say this now (and I'm sure it's been said quite a lot): Windows Vista is shit.

I don't usually care about people's problems with computers, as the faults are usually unnoticable by anyone other than nerdy losers, but Vista is all kinds of bollocks. It's ok until you try and do anything, after which it can't cope.

Luckily this blog site has the useful function of auto-saving your post, so I didn't lose anything. So I decided to try Firefox, but had to install some plug-ins, so fuck 'em.

Vista is shit. But all (I hate generalisations), ALL Mac users are cunts. What am I to do?

*** END INTERRUPTION***

I suppose To Kill A Mockingbird is one of those attempts to write 'the Great American Novel'. These attempts tend to have a similar feel to them, even if it's something intangible. There certainly seems to be a common thread through Mockingbird, Rye (Catcher), and Road (On The).

I don't know what the Great American Novel is supposed to be. It's like there's some Platonic Form out there that everyone is trying to emulate. American novel-writing is just attempted mimesis, which is stupid because the idea of Platonic Forms is a load of old wank.

It seems that there can only be one Great American Novel. And we obviously haven't found it yet. I wonder if we will one day. Some editor will read a manuscript over his cornflakes, yawn, and say: "Oh good. We've found it", after which everyone will strive to write the Second Greatest American Novel.

I might be wrong, and the GAN (I'm not above using acronyms) is just a genre of book, one that exeplifies American ideals of equality and individualism, of childlike bravery and integrity, of independence and the outsider; highlighting the hypocrisy of the American dream. And the only place to really find these qualities is in the pages of certain books, which get burned by the people they're about.

The Great American Novel is probably the one that's the most flammable.

The American Dream (not Dusty Rhodes) is weird that way. The country's built on principles that are almost entirely ignored (see waterboarding for a good example). But they do have the freedom to sometimes, for a little bit, before the flames have charred everything, whisper some truths. To the people holding the matches. Who are celebrating their freedom.

Oh well, I can't complain. It's given me the opportunity to be quite pretentious for a while.

Also, it's given me the idea for another genius character: Bill Bockingbird. He'll probably be a lawyer or something. I don't know. But he's got a good name.

Sunday 10 February 2008

Mystical Statistic(al)

After watching the BBC's excellent Life in Cold Blood on Monday, I wondered if there could possibly be anyone in the world who dislikes David Attenborough.

He's a king among men. Boyishly enthusiastic without being irritating, earnest without being preachy, full of joy and warmth and gravitas. He makes amazing programmes that everyone likes. He's also anti-creationism, which makes me like him even more.

No-one could hate him.

To test this hypothesis, I have taken the scientific method of the Google search.

A search for the phrase "I hate David Attenborough" generates only two results, both from the same source. It's someone's blog, and they're only using it ironically to express their love for meerkats.

No-one, in the whole of the internet, hates Attenborough. And the internet is powered by hate. There's more hate on the internet than anywhere in the physical world (with the possible exception of McDonalds). This surely proves my point.

By way of comparison, a search for the phrase "I hate Gandhi" generates 443 results. I don't want to chance my hard drive by going on any of the sites, but the content of one result reads:

"i hate gandhi i really hate him . he spoiled india like anything. if any 1 r hurted sorry. i told my opinion."

I'm sure this quote isn't the most eloquent example of possible critiques of the Mahatma's life and works. But it made me laugh. I could investigate Gandhi-hate further, but this isn't a political essay; it's SCIENCE.

"I hate Jesus" conjures up a wry 10,200 hits. A bit harsh, I think. He seemed to be nice enough, even if you're not religious. The stat is further highlightes by the fact that "I hate Hitler" has only 8,400 results. Much like Richard Herring, if I had to choose between following Hitler or Jesus, I would almost certainly choose Jesus. The hatred of the internet seems quite misplaced.

To close this little foray into the facts of internet hatred (and let's be clear, these are facts: there's no way these results could be misconstrued or that my method is unreliable), I decided to invert the whole process.

I tried: "I hate myself".

2,110,000 results.

It's a bit frightening to think of this level of self-loathing on a global scale. But, on the other hand, there's a good chance at least 60% of people on the internet are justifiable targets for loathing (SCIENCE). At least more people hate themselves than Jesus, who is at least 75% good (MORE SCIENCE).

Anyway, I think I've conclusively proved that David Attenborough (or D.A. Baracus as he's sometimes called) is never hated, and always liked. And would be an excellent choice for the Messiah.

Better than Jesus, anyway. As 10,200 people would agree (unless one of them was the meerkat fool).

Friday 8 February 2008

A Long Walk

I went to register with a temping agency today: a depressing prospect, but a necessary one. I decided to walk into Oxford (and my lack of money concurred with my decision), which is about 40 minutes (slightly longer than I had allowed for). On the way, I saw a couple of ominous omens.

First, I saw that people had left flowers by signposts on the pavement, obviously at the site of some fatal accident. But there seemed to be flowers by quite a few posts, for quite a long way. Either no-one was sure exactly where the victim had died (the most likely explanation), or there had been several accidents on that same stretch of pavement. A scary possibility. I wondered if I was walking in some death-trap. Perhaps this pavement was right next to a bit of road perennially covered in ice and marbles. Luckily I didn't die.

The only other possible explanation for the large range of floral tributes, was that the accident was of such force that the victim was smashed into several pieces, each landing at a different location. If I had been quick enough, I could have looked at one of the cards, and if it said "R.I.P Gerald's left leg", I would have know I was right.

It got me thinking; what happens if someone is run over in a cemetery? The flower system would be all screwed up. Or a florist?

There really should be some protocol in place.

Further down the Banbury Road, I saw an advert for what must have been a careers or training company. It had a cartoon of lots of homogeneous figures going round the cog of a big machine. It asked the question: "Is there more to life than this?". To which someone had answered in graffiti, quite neatly, "No".

It made me chuckle. (Not really. I've never chuckled in my life. I'm not a chuckler. But I was amused). I wondered who had written it. Was it some smiling smartarse, or was it some depressed middle-manager on his way to work. "No. There's nothing more to life. There's no hope. I'm serious. I won't even use an exclaimation mark, as this connotes an unsuitable sense of levity."

It certainly made me feel a bit more depressed about the upcoming possibility of office work.

The registration went ok. I had to do a stupid computer test.

On my way home, I decided to take the scenic route. It's been a beautiful day. Bright sunshine, blue skies, not too cold. I decided to walk through the University Parks, and then through the suburbs towards home. I was listening to some Beethoven string quartets, which added to the whole peaceful beauty of the enterprise.

I kept walking past students, on there way to this library or that orgy, and felt a bit jealous. That lifestyle is long gone. I was treating my walk home as a last reminder of what it's like to be free.

I walked through some really nice areas, and eventually came upon Park Town, which is about half way between Summertown and Oxford. I've wanted to live there for a long time, as it's full of expensive houses, and I once saw a cool looking little old man with a hat and cane get off at that bus stop. Park Town is like my version of Hilldale from Back to the Future II (the 1985 version, not the 2015 version, full of tranqs, lobos and zip-heads).

There's an amazing Georgian terrace there (Georgian? I don't know architecture. It could be 1970s for all I know), which looked incredible in the sunlight. Here's a picture (I took one, but I found this on Google which is better):



















So, that's where I plan to live. I wandered through the similarly idyllic streets surrounding, and was overcome with a sense of tranquility and peace. There was no-one around: no cars, no building sites, no kids (and I'm sure the addition of loads of kids would have ruined the whole impression).

I thought of how working full-time robs you of these pleasures. There's never any time to do anything peaceful and relaxing and pedestrian. The weekends are too busy, and you've got to cram everything into them. I want a lifestyle where I can wander about, maybe get a coffee somewhere, or sit in the park. It saddens me to never have that option.

Then I thought about what it would take to afford a house there, and that depressed me further. I wasn't cheered up by thinking of agency work as the first rung on a ladder to more cash. I think it's more that to afford a place like that, I'd probably have to work so hard, I'd never have time to appreciate it. Unless I become the next J.K. Rowling (without the vagina). Then I can do jack shit all day!

I don't care about being rich (although a new TV would be nice...), I just value leisure time. If I had enough money to spend my days in peace and idleness, I'd be perfectly satisfied.

I also walked past the Dragon School, which seemed kind of posh, and I thought about how cool it would be to say you went to the Dragon School. I don't know if they're taught to breath fire or anything, but I hope so.

In the end I took about an hour to get home. It was a rewarding but slightly disconcerting day. I'm impressed by the beauty of the world, but I'm not sure how best to access it.

On my way home I looked for the cog-machine advert to take a picture of it, but I must have missed it. Or maybe, some idealist took it down for giving a misleading impression of the world.

"There is more to life than this! There is!" he might have said, as he was carried off into the back of a police car and beaten with clubs.

So, is there? I don't know. I really don't. But I hope there is.

Tuesday 5 February 2008

Commission it

I'm up too late, fretting.

I'm really tired. There's no reason for me not to go to sleep. But I also feel a bit frantic, worrying about the future. I'm torn between looking for safe, boring, office-type jobs, and searching out for some avenue for a creative role. I should be writing something. I think I'm going to try and write a radio sitcom. I should be doing that now. But I'm writing this.

Maybe I can turn this into a sitcom. Then I don't need to write anything else. The main character can be an insular blogger who bores people. I could have a wacky neighbour who types stuff when I'm not looking. In a different font.

It probably wouldn't work on the radio.

My creativity doesn't really work in a productive way. If it had physical form it would be like a static-electric ball, all flickery. I could do a million things quite well. I can't focus on one. I'm all ideas and no thoughts (or the other way round) and I just end up playing Freecell to calm my fizzing brain.

Maybe I can write some of my radio dialogue here! That might be some inducement...

Greg: Hey, Jeff.

Jeff: Yes, Greg?

Jegg: I'm confused.

Greff: Just like old Gordon Brown.

Jed: BOREdon Brown, more like!

It's political. They'd like that on Radio 4. I could present Have I Got News For You, and we can market t-shirts with pictures of Jeff and Greff and Jegg doing their catchphrases ("I'm confused", "Himmler Says Relax!", "This is so not what I need right now, Dan").

I know! I could make this entry the first episode. It would be all self-reflexive; a kind of meta-comedy (ie. not funny).

Even the last line could be in it!

But now I can't stop. This is a never ending circle. All circles are never ending, except for ones with holes in. Like hoop earrings.

And as I have a final mental breakdown, I'll get swallowed up and realise it was all a dream. This is all a dream.

***Paul's Blog was devised and performed by Paul Fung. The producer was Richard Kettle. Coming up next on Radio 4: David Baddiel examines the life and works of the hammerhead shark***







Paul: *GASP* (Heavy Breathing) Whew. It was all a dream.

Greff: This is so not what I need right now, Dan.

SOUND F/X: A DISTANT SIREN, A CAR SPLASHES PAST IN THE RAIN

Monday 4 February 2008

Sports and Guns

A quick burst of US culture today!

So, I watched the Superbowl and thoroughly enjoyed it. I decided to support the Giants in the end, mainly because they were the underdogs, but partly because I don't like patriotism as a quality. Whereas giants in general are pretty cool. Top three giants? Well, if you're asking: Andre (the Giant), Great Grape Ape (he counts), and the Giant Sequoia.

It wasn't Ray Stubbs, but that blonde kid from Sportsround doing the coverage, and I think he did an admirable job. They had to fill commercial time with the odd 'Superbowl Memories' package reminiscing about one of the games in its illustrious forty-something history. Which isn't much. The FA Cup pisses all over that.

Similarly, it's amusing when Americans mention they have over two hundred years of history. It seems so insubstantial. It's not fair really. Their history lessons have so much less to cover than ours, it's a wonder that every US citizen can't give details of every day in their history, right up to who had what for breakfast and a breakdown of each state by most popular hat.

One thing that watching the Superbowl does do, is remind me of how fucking brilliant (proper) football is. Soccer is so clearly the best sport, and by such a wide margin, that it's a wonder there's any debate. It has all the best qualities of every other sport rolled into one (except Foxy Boxing, but I'm sure that'll come).

***

Yesterday, I finally got around to watching Die Hard 4.0 (or Live Free or Die Hard, a kind of self-defeating ultimatum). I love the Die Hard films and this one was pretty good.

No fuss, just lots of action. It suffered a little from being rated PG-13, but not as much as I thought it would.

The only real flaw is that the villian was a bit pathetic. I didn't really buy the pretty-boy nerd as much of a threat, especially when compared to badass Alan "Shoot the Glass" Rickman and crazy-ass Jeremy "Holy Toledo! Somebody had fun" Irons. I think Gary Oldman should have got the part. He's insane enough to be a threat to McClane, if only for a while.

And strangely, I think I prefer it to the Bourne films, because you need a bit of humour in between the car crashes and bullets, even if it has to come from the kid from Galaxy Quest.

*** (this is a dividing line, rather than a star-rating)

While I'm on films, here's my review of No Country for Old Men:

Pretty damn good, but the title is a bit difficult. I'm sure I asked for tickets to "Old Country for New Men", "Country Men for No Colds", "Cowboys Know No Boys (Heath Ledger RIP)".

It was scary, the psycho guy was cool, great performances all round. And I'm a sucker for a lck of resolution, and some weird structure, so I rate this pretty highly. But then, I also really liked The Man Who Wasn't There when I first saw it, and it didn't blow me away on second viewing, so what do I know?

In conclusion, one thumb up for the quality of the film, and one thumb up for Kelly MacDonald being in it (I'm sure she'd enjoy that).

Sunday 3 February 2008

Pigskin

I don't really get the fuss about cannibalism.

Once someone's dead, they're dead. What does it matter who digests the flesh? It's either us or the worms.

If you kill someone with the intention of eating them, that's bad. Killing people is bad. I don't hesitate in saying that. Killing is unequivacably wrong. Definitely.

But I don't know why there is such a big taboo over eating people. Maybe it's just that we taste bad. But there doesn't seem to be the same stigma attached to eating fennel. It doesn't make much sense.

When I was a kid, I got quite freaked out by the trailer to Alive. But nowadays, I'd be quite willing (not happy mind you, I'd probably be quite shocked by the plane crash and corpses), once everything had sunk in, to eat a bit of human mince. Unless my victim had tattoos. They might taste all inky like an octopus.

Not that I've ever eaten octopus. That would be disgusting.

***

It's the Superbowl tonight!

I thnk I may stay up to watch it, as it's on BBC and won't have adverts every eight seconds. I'm not sure what they'll do to fill the time, as the Superbowl is generally 85% commercials, 6% preposterous half-time glitz, 3% instant replays and the odd bit of armoured trolls running into each other at speed. Maybe everytime the game goes to commercial, it will cut back to someone in the BBC studio (someone who never watched the sport before this week and seems out of place, like Ray Stubbs) and they can explain to everyone why the game is supposed to be exciting.

I don't mean t be pessimistic. I think American Football is really fun to watch. As I've discussed before, it's made for people with short attention spans, which makes it frenetic and brutal, like a drive-by punching.

I have a fondness for American Football, as I remember staying up very late watching it at University with my friend James, for no good reason, other than we had nothing better to do. It's a bit like Laurel and Hardy which we used to watch to avoid working.

If you are putting something off, everything else becomes incredibly interesting.

So tonight, when I should be getting a good night's sleep to allow for a productive job search this week, I'll be staying up all night, drinking jasmine tea, in my pants, watching Ray Stubbs shrugging.

My prediction: Patriots will win. I'm supporting them because I've lived in England all my life and I've only been to York once.

Saturday 2 February 2008

Confession

So, I mentioned the anti-revelation in the last post, but I've decided this is too ugly an expression. Maybe I should go with antipiphany.

Anyway, this refers to an experience I had before leaving Devon. Lucy's parents were down and by way of providing activities, we took them to a concert by the Sidmouth Gospel Choir. As you might imagine, I wasn't thrilled with the idea. My feelings on religion have been well documented. But I went along, as I was told they wouldn't be performing in the church itself, but in the church hall.

Plus, it's only a gospel choir, not a service or anything. So I thought I'd be fine. I was well wrong.

When we arrived, we found out it was going to be in the church after all. "Shit," I thought. And the music was all very religious. I know, I know, I should have realised that by seeing the words 'gospel' and 'choir', but I naively thought it would be more cool, like going to see an Al Green concert or something. I was well wrong again.

As soon as the performance started, I knew that I was in trouble.

The reason is: I have an irrational reaction to being in church. It is almost like having a panic attack. It's happened for ages, and I remember having to leave a service when I was a kid, because it was stressing me out. And whenever I've been conned into attending a carol service or something, I always feel the same.

I start feeling agitated. Powerful waves of panic wash over me. I begin to feel physically nauseus. I can't sit still. I keep longing to leave. What's more, hatred overcomes me. I hate everything that is being said, I wish I could shout out in condemnation of all the bullshit, I feel anger at being forced to listen to this nonsense, and at the same time shame at being an imposter; a fake; a pretender, or (God forbid) a hypocrite.

The important thing is that this isn't just an atheist's distaste for religion. I feel that all the time. It's not just annoyance or self-righteous indignation. It's a reaction on a far deeper level; in my very bones. I'm not reacting out of a thoughtful rejection of organised religion (although this probably doesn't help), I'm reacting as though I want to physically expel the poisons of faith.

I start to think things that I would never ordinarily think. Usually, even though I dislike religion, I still value the tremendous art and architecture that has sprung up around the church. I can appreciate the beauty of paintings and music that are explicitly religious. But when I'm in church, and overcome by this feeling, I want it all gone. I want the churches demolishes, the stained-glass smashed, the paintings burned. I look at the hymn books and want to tear them up. I'd open my veins if it meant drowning the congegation and staining irreprably the oppressive evil of the church.

This is clearly stupid (and a bit melodramtic). But that's how I honestly feel at those times. This is why I think of it as an antipiphany. It's atheism working at a far more spiritual level. And I don't think that makes any sense.

The whole thing wasn't helped by the mostly shit music of the gospel choir and the young woman leading the group saying "We're not all Christians. Some of us believe what we're singing about and others don't. I suggest you DO believe it. It will change your life!"

It will change your life. Yes, it probably will. But so will becoming a heroin addict. And I'd rather hang out with Lou Reed than Cliff Richard.

I got through it in the end, but it dragged like a motherfucker. I don't think I'll be conned into going again.

I think this experience might relate to a dream I wrote about here before. Maybe my distress can be traced back to some childhood trauma. Maybe I was bummed by a priest or got a crucifix stuck in my eye or something.

Although this makes me sound like a mental patient, it only affects me when I'm in church, which is about once every five years. So I think I'll be ok. The rest of the time I'm relatively normal. I did once hunt down Jim Caviezel, stick a false beard on him, and force him to walk across a glass of water at gunpoint. But we all go a bit funny at Christmas.

Damn you God for making me this way! And you don't even exist, which just adds salt to the wounds! Your holy non-existent salt in my heretical brain wounds!

Friday 1 February 2008

Slight Return

Yes!

I'm back online and it feels good! Our new connection has only been working for about an hour, and I've been wallowing in the interweb as though it was a refreshing mountain lake and I had been all hot and covered in ants. Instead of water though, I'm wallowing in stupid videos and sniping and downloads. It is good.

Despite intending to write an offline journal to post here, I... haven't. I haven't been regimented enough, to be honest. But I'm sure I'll think of some things to say soon. I have in mind entries about anti-revelations and cannibalism. For now, I'll post my second audio effort. It is supposed to be funny, I suppose, and is almost entirely improvised. If I do stuff lots of times I get bored with it, which might suggest it's boring, but might suggest that I am a off-the-cuff artist extraordinaire. I think the production-quality isn't too good, but I'll try and improve.

This is the story of Freddy Lee Accessible (I wrote about him here before! From germination to fruit!).